Work Text:
My sword, that shimmers in my hand-
Do you have the might to eat the guilty flesh?
To drink the blood of those who are to blame?
The time of change is here – let them feel your bite!
Rise, my brothers, we are blessed by steel! - In my sword I trust!
Arm yourselves, the truth shall be revealed … In my sword I trust!
Tyrants and cowards, for metal you’ll kneel! In my sword I trust!
‘til Justice and reason we’ll wield … In my sword I trust!
- Ensiferum - In My Sword I Trust
Roars echo across the sky, swords clash, arrows fly. The stench of burning flesh and smoke hangs in the air like a thick blanket.
Screams are everywhere. The world is black and red, blood raining from the clouds, feathers and flesh and chipped bits of bone and steel hailing on those caught in battle, battering them, tearing their skin and wings.
One bursts into flames suddenly. He is dead before he can scream.
Others are not so lucky; their limbs are caught by their bloodthirsty kin, nails shredding skin, teeth tearing flesh, wings angled inward to clip one another at the bone.
The clouds are littered with dead and dying angels. The wounded ones are forgotten, their cries ignored, their blood staining the sky. Tiny bodies lay among them, little ones, fledglings, and an older angel, one of the First, is bent over a small body, mouth torn open in a silent scream of grief and regret, tears tracking his skin.
Others who are not as crazed crowd around him consolingly, shield him with their wings.
Hêlêl, they say. Hêlêl, leave him. You cannot help.
He raises his head, gazes up at them through pale blue eyes older than Time, older than Space, older than the Void, and he folds gargantuan, magnificent wings around the little angel. His body is tiny against the vast expanse of white and red and gold and fire-orange and pale, silvery purple, a small corpse against the backdrop of a sunrise.
And the others are still.
The war rages around them. Hêlêl folds them all in his wings, several other little ones and Seraphim and Gabriel and Beli’el, two fledglings huddled to his chest, against warmth and protection and the fierce rage of a warrior. One of the little ones falls asleep with her head rested on his heart. A Seraph gazes up at him, terrified.
Will we be safe, Hêlêl? Will your protect us? he asks. He has not yet mastered the art of speech, of vocalization. Hêlêl nod-shrugs.
I’ll protect you. I cannot promise that you will be safe, Castiel, he admits. Castiel appears satisfied, however, and begins playing with the large feathers closest to him in order to distract himself.
He should not be dead, Hêlêl mourns, his pain resonating through the others’ minds. Whoever has begun this War, I swear I will tear him apart with my own hands for taking these little ones’ lives, for taking them from us. I will rend his flesh barehanded. I will be sure he dies as painful a death as he deserves.
Another Old One bends down beside him and kisses the dead fledgling’s cheek.
Rest well, little one. Has he a name?
None that we have Given him, Beli’el replies solemnly. The Old One nods calmly, elegantly, midnight-coloured eyes fixed on the little angel.
I support Hêlêl’s plan. I will destroy the one who is responsible for all these deaths, for this murder, he spits out the word. Here, murder is unthinkable, a bad word, a dark word. I will murder him. He does not deserve mercy, he vows and goes to stand beside Hêlêl, hands folded. Hêlêl leans into him, pale body pressed against the other Old One’s, wings tucked close to his body, lets the other pull him close, brush his hair aside, kiss his neck.
The younger angels are surprised.
Thank you, Michael, Hêlêl says. Michael nods and kisses his cheek gently.
Leave us, he orders, and the Seraphim and Gabriel and Beli’el and the little ones depart. Once they are alone, Hêlêl breathes another kiss onto the dead fledgling’s forehead and lets it erupt in flames.
I want his Grace to rest easy. He would have been magnificent, he explains. Michael nods.
Never as magnificent as you, he whispers and presses a kiss onto Hêlêl’s lips. The other returns the gesture, wings trembling with surprised enjoyment, and Michael lifts him up and cradles him in his arms, wings folded protectively around his smaller form.
They fight for you, Hêlêl, he says. Hêlêl smiles sadly.
I want them to end for me. We should not have to fight, Michael.
Michael smiles warmly, kisses him harder.
They will.